Thursday, February 16, 2006
Similar sounds
Similar sounds erupt these days. They come through window sills, vents, ventilators, the closed door and in agitated tones seek respites. I have none to offer. To understand is not to assuage. Other sounds make their difficult way through morning mists which overlap with smog until the clear and the unclear, the pure and impure, the clean and the sullied, is all one. These sounds seek love. I dont have that too and he who has nothing can give nothing and eventually forgets to take. To understand is not to requite. I have nothing to give but they keep coming, these sounds and their soundbearers, like mendicants who know all the secrets of worlds and worlds, but yet beg for little alms and yesterday's rice.
Monday, February 13, 2006
shadows
When day disgusted quit, man and woman recognised the other through shadows. Shadows with no features, only form – tall, short, wide, narrow and their many mixes. He saw her through the veil of black and she saw him through night’s grief. Their eyes sought each other but in the land of shadows only shadows met.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
to whom every shade is darkness inviting
to whom every shade is darkness inviting
who sees not the solace that comes with it
whose every utterance is a cry
but who denies this
and silently prays for reprieve, any reprieve
but is too proud to speak, to voice it
and too much in pain to listen
how can anyone not see her blinding ache
how can anyone not hear her silent clamour
and yet no one does
except me
who takes all to be affront
and on chariots of hurt
spurns every hand that reaches out
imagines slights where smiles are
and strikes at the arrogance of compassion
who persists in this drama of doom
this drama self-willed, abhorred but played
how does anyone get through this wall
even the happy gods, those tireless ones, give up here
not me, i do not
who sees not the solace that comes with it
whose every utterance is a cry
but who denies this
and silently prays for reprieve, any reprieve
but is too proud to speak, to voice it
and too much in pain to listen
how can anyone not see her blinding ache
how can anyone not hear her silent clamour
and yet no one does
except me
who takes all to be affront
and on chariots of hurt
spurns every hand that reaches out
imagines slights where smiles are
and strikes at the arrogance of compassion
who persists in this drama of doom
this drama self-willed, abhorred but played
how does anyone get through this wall
even the happy gods, those tireless ones, give up here
not me, i do not
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Madness, meditation: an essay
My father's younger brother, M P Parameswaran Nair died recently, having lived as a schizophrenic for at least the last 25 years of his life. For the most part of that period he smoked beedis in a room in the house at Pulluvazhi, near Perumbavoor in Kerala. Before, he had studied engineering at Benaras Hindu University and later at Patrick Lumumba University in Moscow. He was also for a short while in the army, recruited out of turn for his knowledge of Russian. In short, he was well traveled, intelligent and productive till he gradually lost control over the mind. I remember the fragment of a conversation I once had with him which went something like this:
He: "I am going to Delhi"
I: "Why?"
He: "To meet the director of the CIA"
I: "Who is the director of the CIA?"
He: "Me"
Unlike my uncle who died of a heart attack, Chandramohan died after being run over by a truck in a suburb called Dahisar which is very near Borivali, , a northern suburb of Mumbai. Before Chandramohan died, his body was literally going into pieces. We used to see him sitting in the parapet of a bus depot hours on end staring at particularly nothing. He was usually very clean, always coming early in the morning his hair slicked back, which meant that he had had a bath or at least washed his hair. He also wore a denim jacket over his shirt and jeans. He claimed to be a poet and constantly kept writing on some pieces of paper. I looked at it once or twice and there is only one line which struck me and it went something like this: The whole U in your eyes. There was a circle on the U, which signified, if I remember correctly, Universe. I do not remember any of the other lines, which means either it was meaningless or I have a poor memory.
The first sign of Chandramohan's disintegration came when he lost three of his front teeth, I forget how. He used to sit as before in the depot but somehow, with three teeth missing, that dignity or elegance of the artist was missing. Also his denim jacket went missing and his hearing slowly faded. When we said anything to him, he would bend his ears towards us and we would shout. He refused the idea of ear plugs using a twisted logic which said that with ear plugs you have to concentrate on the particular direction from which the sounds came. I have no idea what he meant by that. One day, when we were sitting as usual at the depot, a friend came and said that Chandrmohan has died. He had not heard the truck coming behind him, was how his death was explained. Anyhow, I don't think anybody cried.
I will also tell you about another person, a gold medallist in, I think, engineering from Benaras Hindu University, who lives in the same colony as me. This man wants to make movies. Before I quit smoking, I used to run into him at the paanwallah and he would tell me about scripts he is writing for movies, of wanting to write articles about what was wrong with our society and how it could be changed. I do not know whether he ever wrote them, certainly none got printed. I don’t think he ever completed any script. Consequently he is yet to make a movie. He had been brilliant once and he could do nothing now, it was as simple as that. But at least he was coherent in speech and decent in attire unlike the man in a place called Saibaba Nagar, which is in Borivali. This man, usually nude, often gets on to the divider and thinking himself to be a traffic constable, directs the traffic. Very few take notice of him and understandably so. That is the character of insanity; this turning of the mind within itself, a turning away from the world. Consequently the world turns away from the insane, both have nothing to give to each other. There are therefore no CIA directors, no scripts, no poems, no traffic to stop, there is nothing in those minds which must have once thought like you and I do.
My father, M P Narayana Pillai, a writer, would pace up and down talking to himself. He did this so often that we thought nothing strange about it. In fact, we joked that the only difference between him and his brother was that he was socially productive – as in, he could earn money by bartering a set of skills. He would agree and was almost proud of it. However, I have come to believe that it was a bad joke. Not because it was insulting to my father (he, as I said, took pride in the sobriquet). I think it was a complete travesty of madness, a romanticisation, much like the assumption that the mad man is happy within a particular universe of his own or that courting madness is in some ways necessary for the pursuit of creativity. I came to this view after going to a meditation course for the second time in my life.
The first time I went for the ten-day course was in July 2002 at a place called Igatpuri which is on the Mumbai-Nashik route. It was a Buddhist meditation technique called Vipassana. For ten days, all you do there is meditate. You cannot speak, read newspapers or novels, write anything, watch TV, communicate using signs or anything. You can only meditate at Dhamma Giri, the name of the place where this course was conducted. The first time I had no extraordinary experiences, but at the conclusion of the course felt a serenity which was obviously due to the complete insulation of the senses.
To describe the technique -- for the first three-and-a-half days, from morning 4 am to night 9 pm, you observe the breath, without in any manner trying to control it. Then on, till the end of the tenth day, you observe sensations in the body. The sensation is defined as anything that is present at a particular spot of the body. It could be heat, cold, heaviness, dryness, etc, whatever you feel is sensation. By the end of the tenth day, your mind becomes so sharp that you feel subtle vibrations all over the body. But the rule is to just observe it without becoming happy at a pleasurable sensation or sad at a painful sensation. This, in brief, is Vipassana meditation. As you advance, it is claimed that all the mind-matter phenomena reveal themselves as vibrations. Beyond this is the stage of Nirvana or Nibbana as they call it, which cannot be described precisely because it is beyond the field of mind and matter.
The next August, I therefore went expecting a much better experience. By the end of the fifth day, I was terrified at what my mind was churning out. It came to a stage that it was not the thought or thoughts that terrified me but the fear that those thought or thoughts will arise. Which then is a surefire formula for the mind to get directed to those thought/thoughts. The trick is to focus completely on the sensations in your body. Every aversion (and fear is of course one) you harbour will then make itself apparent as an unpleasant sensation or sensations. I developed a toothache on the sixth day. You are warned that the most important thing in meditation is not to experience the sensations but to remain equanimous no matter how pleasant or painful the sensation. In my case, the hint of a toothache was enough to bury my equanimity. I say it with no especial feeling of shame – I completely lost it. In retrospect the toothache appeared very trifle and it is a very trifle thing but remember, in that silence, that there is nobody there except you and the tooth ache. It is the only thing that exists and there is no ailment in the world that you will not associate with that ache, from tongue cancer to psychosis. After I returned home…aching, I went to a dentist who apart from relieving me of 300 rupees, helped in no way whatsoever. As time passed and the mind returned to its ordinary pattern with the usual contents that fill it, the toothache gradually passed away.
I was hardly the first to go through this experience. In fact, I first heard about this reaction to meditation when I must have been 13 or 14 and went for a Chinmaya Mission retreat in Lonavala. I remember the Sanyasi who was conducting the retreat remarking that students often come to him and tell him that during meditation terrifying thoughts arise. This particular question is inevitably one which is asked to almost every person whose teaching involves meditation, from Chinmayananda to Ramana Maharshi. The answer is always the same -- unless the filth of the mind comes out, how will it become pure. But only when you experience it, does the import of the question strike.
Therefore, and this is the point I am making, your mind is hardly a friend. It hits back as soon as you explore your way through it. The minute you try to tame it, it will lead you through a fiery path. And it has enough ammunition because nothing you have done, thought, seen, heard, desired, abhorred, craved, etc, from your mother’s womb to the present minute and second, is hidden from it. This terrifying character of the mind has to be experienced to be believed. And it will not take much effort. Just lock yourself up for two days in a room and try to concentrate on your breath or try to just observe your thoughts. You will understand what I am talking about. Which is why, when I think of a Chandramohan or my father’s brother, who has witnessed the gradual erosion of control, the loss of equanimity, reason, logic and continuity of thought, I think of my toothache and multiply it by infinity. That must be the situation of a person who has lost his value as a human being, a value built over millions of years of evolution from the first single celled amoeba to mankind.
He: "I am going to Delhi"
I: "Why?"
He: "To meet the director of the CIA"
I: "Who is the director of the CIA?"
He: "Me"
Unlike my uncle who died of a heart attack, Chandramohan died after being run over by a truck in a suburb called Dahisar which is very near Borivali, , a northern suburb of Mumbai. Before Chandramohan died, his body was literally going into pieces. We used to see him sitting in the parapet of a bus depot hours on end staring at particularly nothing. He was usually very clean, always coming early in the morning his hair slicked back, which meant that he had had a bath or at least washed his hair. He also wore a denim jacket over his shirt and jeans. He claimed to be a poet and constantly kept writing on some pieces of paper. I looked at it once or twice and there is only one line which struck me and it went something like this: The whole U in your eyes. There was a circle on the U, which signified, if I remember correctly, Universe. I do not remember any of the other lines, which means either it was meaningless or I have a poor memory.
The first sign of Chandramohan's disintegration came when he lost three of his front teeth, I forget how. He used to sit as before in the depot but somehow, with three teeth missing, that dignity or elegance of the artist was missing. Also his denim jacket went missing and his hearing slowly faded. When we said anything to him, he would bend his ears towards us and we would shout. He refused the idea of ear plugs using a twisted logic which said that with ear plugs you have to concentrate on the particular direction from which the sounds came. I have no idea what he meant by that. One day, when we were sitting as usual at the depot, a friend came and said that Chandrmohan has died. He had not heard the truck coming behind him, was how his death was explained. Anyhow, I don't think anybody cried.
I will also tell you about another person, a gold medallist in, I think, engineering from Benaras Hindu University, who lives in the same colony as me. This man wants to make movies. Before I quit smoking, I used to run into him at the paanwallah and he would tell me about scripts he is writing for movies, of wanting to write articles about what was wrong with our society and how it could be changed. I do not know whether he ever wrote them, certainly none got printed. I don’t think he ever completed any script. Consequently he is yet to make a movie. He had been brilliant once and he could do nothing now, it was as simple as that. But at least he was coherent in speech and decent in attire unlike the man in a place called Saibaba Nagar, which is in Borivali. This man, usually nude, often gets on to the divider and thinking himself to be a traffic constable, directs the traffic. Very few take notice of him and understandably so. That is the character of insanity; this turning of the mind within itself, a turning away from the world. Consequently the world turns away from the insane, both have nothing to give to each other. There are therefore no CIA directors, no scripts, no poems, no traffic to stop, there is nothing in those minds which must have once thought like you and I do.
My father, M P Narayana Pillai, a writer, would pace up and down talking to himself. He did this so often that we thought nothing strange about it. In fact, we joked that the only difference between him and his brother was that he was socially productive – as in, he could earn money by bartering a set of skills. He would agree and was almost proud of it. However, I have come to believe that it was a bad joke. Not because it was insulting to my father (he, as I said, took pride in the sobriquet). I think it was a complete travesty of madness, a romanticisation, much like the assumption that the mad man is happy within a particular universe of his own or that courting madness is in some ways necessary for the pursuit of creativity. I came to this view after going to a meditation course for the second time in my life.
The first time I went for the ten-day course was in July 2002 at a place called Igatpuri which is on the Mumbai-Nashik route. It was a Buddhist meditation technique called Vipassana. For ten days, all you do there is meditate. You cannot speak, read newspapers or novels, write anything, watch TV, communicate using signs or anything. You can only meditate at Dhamma Giri, the name of the place where this course was conducted. The first time I had no extraordinary experiences, but at the conclusion of the course felt a serenity which was obviously due to the complete insulation of the senses.
To describe the technique -- for the first three-and-a-half days, from morning 4 am to night 9 pm, you observe the breath, without in any manner trying to control it. Then on, till the end of the tenth day, you observe sensations in the body. The sensation is defined as anything that is present at a particular spot of the body. It could be heat, cold, heaviness, dryness, etc, whatever you feel is sensation. By the end of the tenth day, your mind becomes so sharp that you feel subtle vibrations all over the body. But the rule is to just observe it without becoming happy at a pleasurable sensation or sad at a painful sensation. This, in brief, is Vipassana meditation. As you advance, it is claimed that all the mind-matter phenomena reveal themselves as vibrations. Beyond this is the stage of Nirvana or Nibbana as they call it, which cannot be described precisely because it is beyond the field of mind and matter.
The next August, I therefore went expecting a much better experience. By the end of the fifth day, I was terrified at what my mind was churning out. It came to a stage that it was not the thought or thoughts that terrified me but the fear that those thought or thoughts will arise. Which then is a surefire formula for the mind to get directed to those thought/thoughts. The trick is to focus completely on the sensations in your body. Every aversion (and fear is of course one) you harbour will then make itself apparent as an unpleasant sensation or sensations. I developed a toothache on the sixth day. You are warned that the most important thing in meditation is not to experience the sensations but to remain equanimous no matter how pleasant or painful the sensation. In my case, the hint of a toothache was enough to bury my equanimity. I say it with no especial feeling of shame – I completely lost it. In retrospect the toothache appeared very trifle and it is a very trifle thing but remember, in that silence, that there is nobody there except you and the tooth ache. It is the only thing that exists and there is no ailment in the world that you will not associate with that ache, from tongue cancer to psychosis. After I returned home…aching, I went to a dentist who apart from relieving me of 300 rupees, helped in no way whatsoever. As time passed and the mind returned to its ordinary pattern with the usual contents that fill it, the toothache gradually passed away.
I was hardly the first to go through this experience. In fact, I first heard about this reaction to meditation when I must have been 13 or 14 and went for a Chinmaya Mission retreat in Lonavala. I remember the Sanyasi who was conducting the retreat remarking that students often come to him and tell him that during meditation terrifying thoughts arise. This particular question is inevitably one which is asked to almost every person whose teaching involves meditation, from Chinmayananda to Ramana Maharshi. The answer is always the same -- unless the filth of the mind comes out, how will it become pure. But only when you experience it, does the import of the question strike.
Therefore, and this is the point I am making, your mind is hardly a friend. It hits back as soon as you explore your way through it. The minute you try to tame it, it will lead you through a fiery path. And it has enough ammunition because nothing you have done, thought, seen, heard, desired, abhorred, craved, etc, from your mother’s womb to the present minute and second, is hidden from it. This terrifying character of the mind has to be experienced to be believed. And it will not take much effort. Just lock yourself up for two days in a room and try to concentrate on your breath or try to just observe your thoughts. You will understand what I am talking about. Which is why, when I think of a Chandramohan or my father’s brother, who has witnessed the gradual erosion of control, the loss of equanimity, reason, logic and continuity of thought, I think of my toothache and multiply it by infinity. That must be the situation of a person who has lost his value as a human being, a value built over millions of years of evolution from the first single celled amoeba to mankind.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
bleak
bleak is the will
bleak the black sky
bleak the brown earth
bleak the night
bleak the day
and its daily rebirth
bleak is the silence
bleak the silent wind
which carries this silence
bleak the dead
bleak the living
bleak is this running sorrow
bleak is today
bleak is tomorrow
bleak is you
bleak is me
bleak are the colours
bleak the seasons
bleak is the yellow evening
bleak the red morning
bleak is the brown earth
and the dark matter of the black sky
bleak the black sky
bleak the brown earth
bleak the night
bleak the day
and its daily rebirth
bleak is the silence
bleak the silent wind
which carries this silence
bleak the dead
bleak the living
bleak is this running sorrow
bleak is today
bleak is tomorrow
bleak is you
bleak is me
bleak are the colours
bleak the seasons
bleak is the yellow evening
bleak the red morning
bleak is the brown earth
and the dark matter of the black sky
Friday, January 27, 2006
Did you know, this junction sees it all
Did you know, this junction sees it all
Every sufferance, each train of joy
This junction knows, it sees it all
It sees stray encounters sweetunsweet
Of those who meet in roads
Which do not meet
But draw close and diverge
Till the waving of the hands
Is a figure, a line, a dot and sky
This junction sees such passings
Passings tantalisingly close
Heartbreakingly so
But they pass, and this is seen
This junction sees the imprints etched
And sure enough, it sees it erased
It sees stories in the erasing
Stories which leave leftovers
Like remainders in divisions
It collects these leftovers and packs it all
Looks longingly now and then swipes it away
Everything becomes memory now
Everything is retrospect now
In retrospect so much could happen
But nothing could, nothing did
How sad
Every sufferance, each train of joy
This junction knows, it sees it all
It sees stray encounters sweetunsweet
Of those who meet in roads
Which do not meet
But draw close and diverge
Till the waving of the hands
Is a figure, a line, a dot and sky
This junction sees such passings
Passings tantalisingly close
Heartbreakingly so
But they pass, and this is seen
This junction sees the imprints etched
And sure enough, it sees it erased
It sees stories in the erasing
Stories which leave leftovers
Like remainders in divisions
It collects these leftovers and packs it all
Looks longingly now and then swipes it away
Everything becomes memory now
Everything is retrospect now
In retrospect so much could happen
But nothing could, nothing did
How sad
Friday, January 20, 2006
adhvaitham
shantham shantham shantham
adhvaitham
n'aham n'naham n'tvam
adhvaitham
n'manushyam n'maanushyam n'dhaivam
adhvaitham
n'jananam n'maranam n'punarjanmam
adhvaitham
n'thrupthy n'athrupthy n'ashantham
n'shantham n'ashantham
adhvaitham adhvaitham adhvaitham
adhvaitham
n'aham n'naham n'tvam
adhvaitham
n'manushyam n'maanushyam n'dhaivam
adhvaitham
n'jananam n'maranam n'punarjanmam
adhvaitham
n'thrupthy n'athrupthy n'ashantham
n'shantham n'ashantham
adhvaitham adhvaitham adhvaitham
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
when the clock strikes ten ten
when the clock strikes ten ten and i fall
into the marble of the gilded banquet hall
that is when i hear the ceiling call
through a hole in the magician's shawl
some of whose rabbits now jump at me
as i try to wrench myself free
from the floor's all embracing glee
i try hard to stand but i crawl
there is now whisky burning on the stove
fat men in white wings are flying above
one of whom has arrows and a bow
he shoots one and it becomes a shove
which takes me down by the chest
i descend thinking this is no time to rest
soon there is going to be another ball
the clock strikes ten ten then and i fall
into the marble of the gilded banquet hall
that is when i hear the ceiling call
through a hole in the magician's shawl
some of whose rabbits now jump at me
as i try to wrench myself free
from the floor's all embracing glee
i try hard to stand but i crawl
there is now whisky burning on the stove
fat men in white wings are flying above
one of whom has arrows and a bow
he shoots one and it becomes a shove
which takes me down by the chest
i descend thinking this is no time to rest
soon there is going to be another ball
the clock strikes ten ten then and i fall
Thursday, January 12, 2006
see, night, despite us, is happening
see, night, despite us, is happening
and we stand on the edge of edges
our reluctant and eager toes inch
towards the brink of another brink
look, for certain this is night happening
look, we are beginning separations
our directions ever so surely turning
and our roads are parallel, they lead away, look
watch, we walk alone this night
our fingers find no fingers, they twitch
watch, we will shed memories in our stride
i will forget you, you will forget me
and soon there will be another by our side
and we stand on the edge of edges
our reluctant and eager toes inch
towards the brink of another brink
look, for certain this is night happening
look, we are beginning separations
our directions ever so surely turning
and our roads are parallel, they lead away, look
watch, we walk alone this night
our fingers find no fingers, they twitch
watch, we will shed memories in our stride
i will forget you, you will forget me
and soon there will be another by our side
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
somedays the day is like that
somedays the day flits like butterflies on aimless flight fluttering without direction moving this way that way up down flitting shooting becalming pulsating throbbing flying perspiring, if butterflies can perspire, if days can perspire
somedays the day is like that
somedays the day moves with enormous purpose like spiders on the kill moving around in intent circles moving in moving away even knowing knowing all the while that the distance is closing and the webbed fly is on the weave of death and the spider moves in moves in like the day of enormous intent
somedays the day is like that
somedays the day is like nothing and all that you do is nothing even when you do something and someone says you you have done something and you you know it is nothing because you you know everything is nothing and so the day even if it is rich rich and noble noble is nothing and you know it
somedays the day is like that
somedays the day is like that
somedays the day moves with enormous purpose like spiders on the kill moving around in intent circles moving in moving away even knowing knowing all the while that the distance is closing and the webbed fly is on the weave of death and the spider moves in moves in like the day of enormous intent
somedays the day is like that
somedays the day is like nothing and all that you do is nothing even when you do something and someone says you you have done something and you you know it is nothing because you you know everything is nothing and so the day even if it is rich rich and noble noble is nothing and you know it
somedays the day is like that
Friday, January 06, 2006
she that is lonely and who breaks the minute
she that is lonely and who breaks the minute
which crumbles on her like old bread
and then rises like a wave to engulf her
she has nothing to fear
her loneliness will take her through
and someday she will sleep content
like how children sleep after long days
she who worries for her different loves
who is wife, daughter, lover, mother
her enormous heart will suffice
through repeated betrayals of her love
she has nothing to worry
for she has it in her to take it all in
and from the suffering extend pleasure
which crumbles on her like old bread
and then rises like a wave to engulf her
she has nothing to fear
her loneliness will take her through
and someday she will sleep content
like how children sleep after long days
she who worries for her different loves
who is wife, daughter, lover, mother
her enormous heart will suffice
through repeated betrayals of her love
she has nothing to worry
for she has it in her to take it all in
and from the suffering extend pleasure
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Second Comings
About four years ago, during the end of my epic battle with several demons (and the war's not over), I wrote a story and in an incoherent moment submitted it to an online magazine called Sulekha, who after murdering it a little, put it up. Now Sulekha's become a blogsite of sorts where all and sundry can put up whatever they want and they have posted this there as my post. Which is a little embarrassing because now I find the piece a little juvenile and see the possibility of doing several things to it. I tried to erase the damn thing from Sulekha but the thing just wouldn't go. Moreover when I google my name this is the first thing that pops up. So I thought, since this forms part of self-history, maybe it's a good idea to let it be as is. And also, as my fourth standard teacher says, when you are ashamed of something, exhibit it flaunt it and that is how the shame demons die. So here goes to hell another demon of mine...
SECOND COMINGS
I woke up in the afternoon with a shiver in my mind; the tremors, I knew, would follow. I was not surprised. I headed for the bar. It was not a long walk and as I walked I saw the flowers, the trees, the tresses of a woman, and as I passed the pond, the man joined me.
Who are you, I asked him.
He replied, I am the translator and destroyer of histories, I build second heavens for you, I make the dreams shout at you, I make myths and I am a myth, I create you and let the dreams that I weave in you make you be. I am madness but I am also redemption and I always give you a chance to reject me, destroy me.
Destroy me, I told him.
I am also a storyteller, he said, and therefore I shall tell you another story. About the temple and the temple's door which no one could pass without knocking the head at the awning unless you want to pass not the door but enter what is inside. And this was the story that he told me:
The man and wife climbed the hill, stopped to look at the waterway winding through the fields, saw the pumpkins growing at their feet and then moved ahead to reach the temple, tried to enter the temple and got knocked on the head good and proper. They entered nevertheless, prayed to the god with a flute stuck on its mouth and then rang the bell. A single chime resulted and they remembered the time when they had come, not as man and wife then.
They remembered the bell as it had rung then, when the chimes echoed to more chimes and then more chimes and the cadence ascending to a harmony. They remembered looking at the god then and then realising that if there was only something added, everything would be complete and proper. But they were satisfied then and had returned satiated.
Now, as man and wife, complete, they had returned and not only did they find themselves incomplete but also unwanted. They returned home looking at nothing, not even the future, promising to never return. They grew up slowly together, prospered, begat children, who begat children. They grew old. They grew tired of each other but continued in the habit of their presence.
And then one day the woman fell from the bathroom and was bedridden. She was afflicted by bedsores, by memory which passed her by, by odd stenches, by unusual dreams, by terrible nightmares until she stopped to think and waited to die. Her leg healed when she was told about a terrible disease which would make her a vegetable soon. The man too waited for the woman to die, scared at the loneliness that would ensue but reconciled. He was reconciled.
One day, as he sat beside her bed and watched the television rerun a movie which they had once seen together and laughed at together and had then gone for a walk together and had laughed together as they walked, the woman told him, take me to the temple. Let us try once more, to enter the temple and see the god. Let me walk for the one last time in my life.
Yes, said the man. We shall enter it together.
And therefore they again made good the arduous climb and saw from afar the awning and the temple door and as they entered, got knocked on the head good and proper.
They did not enter then. The woman leaned against the wall of the nearby well and slumped down onto the floor, beaten and bruised, and the man sat down near her as he thought it was the proper place for him in their moment of defeat.
And he saw his wife, founder of lost battles, in wait at last for uneasy rest. Most excellent once in beauty, withered, wizened, done in by the juices of life. He saw himself, victor in everything we call life, a good life. It was a good life, led by good people. And he felt anger.
He saw the blue skies and looked at the god inside who had spurned them. No god shall spurn us, no god can spurn us: he started chanting the mantra and then he remembered, once, when he had seen and had fallen deeply, deeply in love with her in the computer laboratory where they both were students. And he remembered, in the evening, when she was away and everyone was away, he had opened her computer and had kept on typing:
Doe eyed
filter toed
Minerva in disguise
Doe eyed
filter toed
Minerva in disguise
Doe eyed
filter toed
Minerva in disguise
Creature of right
Little love
In easy flight
And the man as he sat watching his wife near the temple changed his mantra and started chanting: Doe eyed, filter toed, Minerva in disguise and he got up chanting and picked up his wife, she had never felt lighter before, never more beautiful, he was never as comfortable in her proximity and he carried her in his two arms towards the awning, beyond the doors which seemed to grow and grow till they touched the very heavens. The man carried his wife inside the temple and together they took the bell and swung the gong and the chimes began, and once beginning never seemed to stop. Not even, smiled the wife, for the flute which the god vainly tried to play.
SECOND COMINGS
I woke up in the afternoon with a shiver in my mind; the tremors, I knew, would follow. I was not surprised. I headed for the bar. It was not a long walk and as I walked I saw the flowers, the trees, the tresses of a woman, and as I passed the pond, the man joined me.
Who are you, I asked him.
He replied, I am the translator and destroyer of histories, I build second heavens for you, I make the dreams shout at you, I make myths and I am a myth, I create you and let the dreams that I weave in you make you be. I am madness but I am also redemption and I always give you a chance to reject me, destroy me.
Destroy me, I told him.
I am also a storyteller, he said, and therefore I shall tell you another story. About the temple and the temple's door which no one could pass without knocking the head at the awning unless you want to pass not the door but enter what is inside. And this was the story that he told me:
The man and wife climbed the hill, stopped to look at the waterway winding through the fields, saw the pumpkins growing at their feet and then moved ahead to reach the temple, tried to enter the temple and got knocked on the head good and proper. They entered nevertheless, prayed to the god with a flute stuck on its mouth and then rang the bell. A single chime resulted and they remembered the time when they had come, not as man and wife then.
They remembered the bell as it had rung then, when the chimes echoed to more chimes and then more chimes and the cadence ascending to a harmony. They remembered looking at the god then and then realising that if there was only something added, everything would be complete and proper. But they were satisfied then and had returned satiated.
Now, as man and wife, complete, they had returned and not only did they find themselves incomplete but also unwanted. They returned home looking at nothing, not even the future, promising to never return. They grew up slowly together, prospered, begat children, who begat children. They grew old. They grew tired of each other but continued in the habit of their presence.
And then one day the woman fell from the bathroom and was bedridden. She was afflicted by bedsores, by memory which passed her by, by odd stenches, by unusual dreams, by terrible nightmares until she stopped to think and waited to die. Her leg healed when she was told about a terrible disease which would make her a vegetable soon. The man too waited for the woman to die, scared at the loneliness that would ensue but reconciled. He was reconciled.
One day, as he sat beside her bed and watched the television rerun a movie which they had once seen together and laughed at together and had then gone for a walk together and had laughed together as they walked, the woman told him, take me to the temple. Let us try once more, to enter the temple and see the god. Let me walk for the one last time in my life.
Yes, said the man. We shall enter it together.
And therefore they again made good the arduous climb and saw from afar the awning and the temple door and as they entered, got knocked on the head good and proper.
They did not enter then. The woman leaned against the wall of the nearby well and slumped down onto the floor, beaten and bruised, and the man sat down near her as he thought it was the proper place for him in their moment of defeat.
And he saw his wife, founder of lost battles, in wait at last for uneasy rest. Most excellent once in beauty, withered, wizened, done in by the juices of life. He saw himself, victor in everything we call life, a good life. It was a good life, led by good people. And he felt anger.
He saw the blue skies and looked at the god inside who had spurned them. No god shall spurn us, no god can spurn us: he started chanting the mantra and then he remembered, once, when he had seen and had fallen deeply, deeply in love with her in the computer laboratory where they both were students. And he remembered, in the evening, when she was away and everyone was away, he had opened her computer and had kept on typing:
Doe eyed
filter toed
Minerva in disguise
Doe eyed
filter toed
Minerva in disguise
Doe eyed
filter toed
Minerva in disguise
Creature of right
Little love
In easy flight
And the man as he sat watching his wife near the temple changed his mantra and started chanting: Doe eyed, filter toed, Minerva in disguise and he got up chanting and picked up his wife, she had never felt lighter before, never more beautiful, he was never as comfortable in her proximity and he carried her in his two arms towards the awning, beyond the doors which seemed to grow and grow till they touched the very heavens. The man carried his wife inside the temple and together they took the bell and swung the gong and the chimes began, and once beginning never seemed to stop. Not even, smiled the wife, for the flute which the god vainly tried to play.
Friday, December 23, 2005
The best chicken curry in the whole world
Since circumstances have conspired to remind me of my chicken curry and this being the season of merriment, I will do you all a favour and post the recipe for the best chicken curry in the whole damned word. After about one and half years of trial and error, I finally settled on this. It's the best there is and dont bother to thank me, for I already hear it...
STUFF YOU WILL NEED:
1. aniseed or saunf or jeera, about a teaspoon or two
2. curry leaves or kadipatta, about ten or twelves leaves
3. onions, i usually put in about five of them but that's because i like its sweet tang
4. ginger-garlic paste, about three teaspoon
5. the chicken of course, a kilo, preferably cut into small pieces
6. chicken masala powder. now this is the tough part because you need Eastern Chicken Masala or Melam Chicken Masala for it to be the best chicken curry in the world. now both brands are big names in Kerala and is available in Mumbai in quaint little shops called Malayalee shops. any Malayalee aunty will direct you there. If you dont get it tough luck. use any chicken masala powder but dont blame me if the divinity is missing.
7. tomato, i usually go overboard, and put in about four of them
8. coconut oil, maybe half a cup
9. green chillies, about eight of them
10. salt, red chilli powder, turmeric powder
HOW DO YOU DO IT:
Here's how. Put about one tablespoon of salt and a teaspoon of turmeric powder on the chicken and mix it. Now remember, you are not marinating the fellow because, this might be news for you, chicken cannot be marinated. What you are doing is removing the chicken stench and this goes away after you wash the salty dead chicken after about five minutes. Now wash it again and again, as if the chicken is being readied for its own funeral. And now keep it aside.
Now, take a vessel, a large one, pour in the oil, let it heat and then put in the aniseed and curry leaves. Dont burn them, just enough for all that nice flavour to sink in.
Now add the onions, and turn the heat on as you make these onions very transparent like Mallika Sherawat. Once that's done, it's the turn of the ginger-garlic paste. And now this heavenly smell will come floating right onto you. Enjoy it because it wont last.
Now the chicken goes in and just fry it around for sometime and it is now time to put in the chicken masala powder but before that you have to do something to it. Listen carefully because this is very important.
Mix the chicken masala with water to make it into a paste before you add it onto the waiting dead chicken. I cant tell you how important this is. I also cant tell you why it works because it works.
Now you have got a dry sort of mixture on the fire, but dont add water. Leave the heat on medium. Maybe you can add the green chillies now after slitting them. if you like it hot add a teaspoon or two of red chilli powder
The hard work is more or less done, except for the tomatoes. Now there's a theory that the tomatoes should be added right at the end, about five minutes before you conclude and that keeps the meat tender. I personally have found that it makes no difference. So you can add the tomatoes whenever you feel like.
Now cover the vessel, go watch a TV serial or read a book and come back every five minutes to stir the chicken.
After about 30 minutes or so add some salt. And then taste it to see its fine. The thing with salt is always start low and then go on increasing because if you put excess of it, then it cant be reversed unless you have a chemistry professor near you.
Add water, if you wish for more gravy and i do wish for more gravy, so i usually add it.
After about 15 more minutes more switch off flame. Eat. Remember me as you eat.
STUFF YOU WILL NEED:
1. aniseed or saunf or jeera, about a teaspoon or two
2. curry leaves or kadipatta, about ten or twelves leaves
3. onions, i usually put in about five of them but that's because i like its sweet tang
4. ginger-garlic paste, about three teaspoon
5. the chicken of course, a kilo, preferably cut into small pieces
6. chicken masala powder. now this is the tough part because you need Eastern Chicken Masala or Melam Chicken Masala for it to be the best chicken curry in the world. now both brands are big names in Kerala and is available in Mumbai in quaint little shops called Malayalee shops. any Malayalee aunty will direct you there. If you dont get it tough luck. use any chicken masala powder but dont blame me if the divinity is missing.
7. tomato, i usually go overboard, and put in about four of them
8. coconut oil, maybe half a cup
9. green chillies, about eight of them
10. salt, red chilli powder, turmeric powder
HOW DO YOU DO IT:
Here's how. Put about one tablespoon of salt and a teaspoon of turmeric powder on the chicken and mix it. Now remember, you are not marinating the fellow because, this might be news for you, chicken cannot be marinated. What you are doing is removing the chicken stench and this goes away after you wash the salty dead chicken after about five minutes. Now wash it again and again, as if the chicken is being readied for its own funeral. And now keep it aside.
Now, take a vessel, a large one, pour in the oil, let it heat and then put in the aniseed and curry leaves. Dont burn them, just enough for all that nice flavour to sink in.
Now add the onions, and turn the heat on as you make these onions very transparent like Mallika Sherawat. Once that's done, it's the turn of the ginger-garlic paste. And now this heavenly smell will come floating right onto you. Enjoy it because it wont last.
Now the chicken goes in and just fry it around for sometime and it is now time to put in the chicken masala powder but before that you have to do something to it. Listen carefully because this is very important.
Mix the chicken masala with water to make it into a paste before you add it onto the waiting dead chicken. I cant tell you how important this is. I also cant tell you why it works because it works.
Now you have got a dry sort of mixture on the fire, but dont add water. Leave the heat on medium. Maybe you can add the green chillies now after slitting them. if you like it hot add a teaspoon or two of red chilli powder
The hard work is more or less done, except for the tomatoes. Now there's a theory that the tomatoes should be added right at the end, about five minutes before you conclude and that keeps the meat tender. I personally have found that it makes no difference. So you can add the tomatoes whenever you feel like.
Now cover the vessel, go watch a TV serial or read a book and come back every five minutes to stir the chicken.
After about 30 minutes or so add some salt. And then taste it to see its fine. The thing with salt is always start low and then go on increasing because if you put excess of it, then it cant be reversed unless you have a chemistry professor near you.
Add water, if you wish for more gravy and i do wish for more gravy, so i usually add it.
After about 15 more minutes more switch off flame. Eat. Remember me as you eat.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Monday, December 19, 2005
we who early morning drink in thimbles
— we one leg in the gutter by the bar
we poets all, we who do not war —
We who early morning drink in thimbles which slake like little lakes
Water our wounds and savour the ebbing of incessant shakes.
We relish the moment of this agony, the reliving of many pains
And celebrate the separation, the distance between you and I.
We who wait for shards of light seeping through the eyes of night
See — remains of one heart pulsating through the year’s stubble
And lame lovers dance to broken strings, whirl, turn and stumble.
Look — bottlemen with nothings battle through absent mornings.
We who do not war, poets all, night bereft in full blood dawn
Feast drink on little loves which matter little now
Envisioning other days, of white-washed second skies
Remembering furtive meetings and the promise of it
(her walk when she walked was somewhat hurried
her eyes her eyes had those touches of worry
she was my shadow, I was her shadow
together together like eye-black on eye)
Then the desolation of evenings, broken halfs of it
Mute with bleak yellow lights from failing lamps
Yellow lights which like futile brakes on this city’s nights
Ease into the early morning and we heart-afflicted watch it die.
we poets all, we who do not war —
We who early morning drink in thimbles which slake like little lakes
Water our wounds and savour the ebbing of incessant shakes.
We relish the moment of this agony, the reliving of many pains
And celebrate the separation, the distance between you and I.
We who wait for shards of light seeping through the eyes of night
See — remains of one heart pulsating through the year’s stubble
And lame lovers dance to broken strings, whirl, turn and stumble.
Look — bottlemen with nothings battle through absent mornings.
We who do not war, poets all, night bereft in full blood dawn
Feast drink on little loves which matter little now
Envisioning other days, of white-washed second skies
Remembering furtive meetings and the promise of it
(her walk when she walked was somewhat hurried
her eyes her eyes had those touches of worry
she was my shadow, I was her shadow
together together like eye-black on eye)
Then the desolation of evenings, broken halfs of it
Mute with bleak yellow lights from failing lamps
Yellow lights which like futile brakes on this city’s nights
Ease into the early morning and we heart-afflicted watch it die.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
the evillest rickshaw driver of mumbai
He was silent when I flagged him. He nodded and shook his head pointing inwards as I gave him my location. This was evening outside Borivali station, which is as north as north Mumbai proper gets. He gunned his black and yellow chariot and we ambled along and soon reached a point where a left had to be taken in the busy thoroughfare. In front of us was another rickshaw driver, blocking our road, waiting all expectantly for a man who had just jumped over the divider and looked like he was going to get in. And while the driver waited thus, the man neared him to half an arms length and just walked past eating peanuts. My rickshawdriver saw all this with keen eyes and then all hell broke loose.
He began to laugh and then went on to laugh and laugh until he was doubling over on his steering jack. In between he turned, and his eyes full of laughter tears, he looked at me and pointing at the rickshaw upfront, he asked in unchaste Hindi, "Did you see that," and then went back to return to splits. I was getting a little worried now. I thought I had a nut on my hands. I found nothing remotely funny in it. "Ho ho he he he, you saw that. Ho ho ho he he he," he continued to gasp out through his guffaws.
The way cleared meanwhile and we started ahead but something had happened to him, my rickshaw driver. Some vent of evil had snapped. Laughing like a maniac, and driving like one too, he suddenly veered onto a bus stop where there were a bunch of people politely standing and he drove straight into them. All of them there went pell mell in all directions. At the last minute, my maniac veered again and we were back into the road's middle. "You saw that. Ho ho ho he he ho ho ho," he went. This was getting infectious and the ghost got into me too and so we both went , "Ha ha ha hah hah ahh ho ho he he ho."
He then pushed on the accelerator and deftly cut another motorcycle driver almost driving him into another scooter. "Ho Ho Hoo Hah hah hah," we went, I slapping his back now.
Now, we were at an intersection and waiting behind a Sumo for the traffic to clear. An old woman came from the left and was about to squeeze her way through from between the auto and the jeep, when my friend, noticing this, waited till the last moment, and then inched his rickshaw ahead blocking off her route. She waited, bewildered, and then slowly, all her age showing, turned back defeated to try to make a way from behind us. "You saw that," said the maniac and went, "Ho ho hoo hoo."
We went ahead and there was a cycle coming from the opposite direction and my driver went straight on to him at full speed and the cyclist flailed his arms and fell to his right. Another cyclist a little ahead, was crowded off the road and fell in a heap on the footpath. And all the while, we both went "ho ho hoo hoo ho ho ha ha. Dont ever give them room. Ho ho hoo hoo hoo"
And this continued on and on, the autorickshaw rocking left and right as we laughed all the way to my place.
We both had one final "Ho ho ha ha Hoo Hoo" before I paid him off and he disappeared from my life. I hope he had an accident on his way back.
He began to laugh and then went on to laugh and laugh until he was doubling over on his steering jack. In between he turned, and his eyes full of laughter tears, he looked at me and pointing at the rickshaw upfront, he asked in unchaste Hindi, "Did you see that," and then went back to return to splits. I was getting a little worried now. I thought I had a nut on my hands. I found nothing remotely funny in it. "Ho ho he he he, you saw that. Ho ho ho he he he," he continued to gasp out through his guffaws.
The way cleared meanwhile and we started ahead but something had happened to him, my rickshaw driver. Some vent of evil had snapped. Laughing like a maniac, and driving like one too, he suddenly veered onto a bus stop where there were a bunch of people politely standing and he drove straight into them. All of them there went pell mell in all directions. At the last minute, my maniac veered again and we were back into the road's middle. "You saw that. Ho ho ho he he ho ho ho," he went. This was getting infectious and the ghost got into me too and so we both went , "Ha ha ha hah hah ahh ho ho he he ho."
He then pushed on the accelerator and deftly cut another motorcycle driver almost driving him into another scooter. "Ho Ho Hoo Hah hah hah," we went, I slapping his back now.
Now, we were at an intersection and waiting behind a Sumo for the traffic to clear. An old woman came from the left and was about to squeeze her way through from between the auto and the jeep, when my friend, noticing this, waited till the last moment, and then inched his rickshaw ahead blocking off her route. She waited, bewildered, and then slowly, all her age showing, turned back defeated to try to make a way from behind us. "You saw that," said the maniac and went, "Ho ho hoo hoo."
We went ahead and there was a cycle coming from the opposite direction and my driver went straight on to him at full speed and the cyclist flailed his arms and fell to his right. Another cyclist a little ahead, was crowded off the road and fell in a heap on the footpath. And all the while, we both went "ho ho hoo hoo ho ho ha ha. Dont ever give them room. Ho ho hoo hoo hoo"
And this continued on and on, the autorickshaw rocking left and right as we laughed all the way to my place.
We both had one final "Ho ho ha ha Hoo Hoo" before I paid him off and he disappeared from my life. I hope he had an accident on his way back.
Monday, December 12, 2005
hear us O you who hears all
hear us O you who hears all
for we are people of faith and hope
burdened by much but unrelenting
silenced by grief but unbowing
hear our faith. we believe
see us O you who sees all
see that we be kind and caring
see that we be good and sharing
we live in your shadow, by your will
by your grace see that we live well
feel us O you who touches all
we are asea in tempests, you the harbour
feel our prayers, for we hymn your glory
we ask no riches nor golden grains
just faith and keep our faith growing
be with us O you who is in all and all
for we know - when there is nothing
when the path is uneven and the darkness
engulfing encompassing entwining -
you exist and that to us is enough
that, hear us O you who hears all, is everything
for we are people of faith and hope
burdened by much but unrelenting
silenced by grief but unbowing
hear our faith. we believe
see us O you who sees all
see that we be kind and caring
see that we be good and sharing
we live in your shadow, by your will
by your grace see that we live well
feel us O you who touches all
we are asea in tempests, you the harbour
feel our prayers, for we hymn your glory
we ask no riches nor golden grains
just faith and keep our faith growing
be with us O you who is in all and all
for we know - when there is nothing
when the path is uneven and the darkness
engulfing encompassing entwining -
you exist and that to us is enough
that, hear us O you who hears all, is everything
Saturday, December 10, 2005
You pursue me
you pursue me
through persuasions
of life
of love
where love is a writ
a plea an ask
a summon
where a summon
is enough
you pursue me
through rescissions
and regrets
where i rescind all
and you breathe all
back into me.
you pursue me
through evasions
you pursue
till i evade no more
we meet
amid
sullied rivers
tainted woods
bald mountains
dead valleys
desert
we meet
we levee the rivers
and shore up dreams
we blink at the night
which blinks back
and so there’s light
we colour the valleys
we colour the mountains
we colour the woods
we colour it all
we irrigate the dry desert
finally we walk
and our feet follow us
without persuasions
without evasions
the sun unbolts the way
at last, it is day
through persuasions
of life
of love
where love is a writ
a plea an ask
a summon
where a summon
is enough
you pursue me
through rescissions
and regrets
where i rescind all
and you breathe all
back into me.
you pursue me
through evasions
you pursue
till i evade no more
we meet
amid
sullied rivers
tainted woods
bald mountains
dead valleys
desert
we meet
we levee the rivers
and shore up dreams
we blink at the night
which blinks back
and so there’s light
we colour the valleys
we colour the mountains
we colour the woods
we colour it all
we irrigate the dry desert
finally we walk
and our feet follow us
without persuasions
without evasions
the sun unbolts the way
at last, it is day
Friday, December 09, 2005
I pursue you
i pursue you
through evasions
of time
where time is a word
a paragraph, a chapter
a novel
where a novel
is a line
i pursue you
through evasions
where you evade
and i evade
and glances float wrinkle
curl
where you walk i walk
and opposite sunsets
rise
i pursue you
through rivers of night
and we draw dreams
with a water wheel
these dreams run
rise and spray
and we separate each
with uneasy fingers
which mildly tremble
(because they break too soon
fragile dreams break too soon)
as we make our way
through rivers of blinding night
through evasions
of time
where time is a word
a paragraph, a chapter
a novel
where a novel
is a line
i pursue you
through evasions
where you evade
and i evade
and glances float wrinkle
curl
where you walk i walk
and opposite sunsets
rise
i pursue you
through rivers of night
and we draw dreams
with a water wheel
these dreams run
rise and spray
and we separate each
with uneasy fingers
which mildly tremble
(because they break too soon
fragile dreams break too soon)
as we make our way
through rivers of blinding night
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